There is dew in my veins; I speak the language of rain.

My hands dig into the bedsheets, finding the question of justice. Life is lonely when everyone looks away. It has been a year now since I showered, left my house, or stayed out of bed for longer than two minutes. It has been three years now since society decided to turn its head away from me. I’ve never been more alone; I have never been lonelier.

World peace surely wouldn’t change a thing. I mean, I’m doing drugs in darkness. I have also learned to cry in a way where it is just a silent stream of tears leaving my eyes; it’s very energy-efficient. I’m not angry enough. Don’t you realize that we are dying? In agony, loneliness, and despair.

We are born naked but dressed in the privilege of health. No one would undress for me; that’s why I am taking Xanax. Every day I have to decide again whether

I want to continue living like this. Every day my cells synthesize liquid hate.

It’s the clouds knocking at my window. It’s the childlike joy residing in my veins. In my dreams, I project myself into beauty; eons from now, I will find myself in the roots of tenderness. Moss and the rhythm of expression. Class war is just escapism, and I keep crying, trying. There is nothing loud in a vacuum-filled world; there is nothing happy in anxiety-filled nightmares. Is this enough suffering for one lifetime?

Will they remember me?

I’m measuring my blood pressure; my world spins. I retrain my brain into the loopy reality of lies. HAHAHA, psychosis will find me, but I will run, at least in my dreams. They are analyzing my blood, forgetting about all the dew in it. They give me all these weird values, but I don’t understand them, as I speak the language of rain.

Make love with me; my bare feet are lonely in a wet world. My mind is but an umbrella, my touch but the last tiny bits of softness that can escape between the

tight nothingness swallowed by the overshoot of GABA.

And I’m sure the trees will understand me, and I’m sure that skin knows what heaven is about. My god is an ugly one, by the way. Maybe my god is even an ideologue; I mean, the only real justice is an earthly one.

Now make me unroll like the ferns in spring. Let me water your being, for there is dew in my veins and I speak the language of rain.